


Rosetta Stone

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Pendragon Returns, Community: tavern_tales, M/M, Post Season/Series 05, arthur in avalon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1421452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>At first he does not know them for what they are. Curls of bark and shredded leaves. Plaits of grass. Rough garlands of wildflowers. Sticks. Stones.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Then, one day, it is a scrap of cloth. A washed-out red with a deeper stain at its heart, and he knows this cloth, knows even before he hears the dry whisper, "The tears of Emrys my lord. All the waters of Avalon will not wash them out."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rosetta Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tavern Tales April theme [ Letters, Emails, Post-Its](http://tavern-tales.livejournal.com/2609.html) over on LJ.

At first he does not know them for what they are. Curls of bark and shredded leaves. Plaits of grass. Rough garlands of wildflowers. Sticks. Stones. 

The sisters bring them to him each day, taking turns, silently placing them at his sides, at his feet, there in the shade of his apple tree.

It is not his apple tree, he knows this. But he is so lonely, here on this fortunate isle, where all is provided and yet none of what he wants. And so he calls the tree his own, and gives himself some sense of belonging.

Then, one day, it is a scrap of cloth. A washed-out red with a deeper stain at its heart, and he _knows_ this cloth, knows even before he hears the dry whisper, "The tears of Emrys, my lord. All the waters of Avalon will not wash them out."

He struggles to sit up, forgetting he cannot.

"Wait!" he cries as the sister turns to go. "Where did you get this… these?" He looks around at the sticks, the stones, the sodden masses of leaves and wildflowers.

"What the Lady gathers from the lake, she brings to our shores. And these are meant for you, so we must deliver them."

***

There are long stretches of time when there is nothing, and he drifts, clutching that scrap of cloth and squinting up at the sunlight filtered through the apple leaves.

Then it begins again. At first it is words crudely carved into bark, scratched into stone. Painted on stiff flaps of hide in a wine-dark ink, the letters jagged with emotion.

The sisters will not bring him news of what happens beyond the island's shores, but he can sense the storms in the way the letters are formed, their placement, the force with which they are applied. 

He knows when Merlin is at war. But whether it is with himself, or on behalf of some other king – who can say?

More and more, Arthur closes his eyes, seeking respite from the eternal sunshine, the eternal shade. He knows his tree so well he can see the shape of each leaf on the backs of his eyelids.

***

The sisters come. They do not come. They come every day, bringing…

Parchment, now. Vellum. Wax tablets. Scrolls of silk so fine he is afraid to touch them. Cloth made of beaten tree bark. Sticks of ivory, disks of bone and clay. Merlin is on the move. His world is growing bigger.

The words change, the letters take on new curves or angles, but it is the same message every time. And so he makes his own journey too, lying there beneath his tree. He compares the silk to the bark to the hide to the stone, sees how the world is shifting, is opening its mouth to different sounds.

He is so tired of waiting. He is so tired. He closes his eyes, and does not open them even when the sisters come.

***

There comes a day when Merlin's hand is replaced by something new. Words split into boxy letters, strung out like armies of ants, marching in strict lines across the brown, the yellow, the white, the blue – all these bland, fragile scraps with their dangerous corners and official stamps.

His blood quickens at this. He wonders, worries, sorts the slips by colour, by size, by any number of observable traits until the next batch arrives. He is convinced that one of them will be different, that one will read _Come home_ or _It is time_.

It is not time. He knows this, has it whispered to him by the apple tree. He crumples stacks of the messages in his fists, imagines throwing them as far as he can, knowing that even if he could, the sisters will only bring them back.

***

Time does nothing for Merlin's handwriting, but it is welcome when it reappears, mixed in amongst the telegrams. Letters. Postcards. The same five words now, scribbled on stiff cardstock or tissue-thin paper, scrawled on the corners of pictures printed on glossy paper.

Arthur presses each one to his forehead, to his lips, hoping the traces of Merlin's world will sink in somehow, will transfer their belonging to him, so he might be a part of it, too.

"He really shouldn't," one of the sisters tells him. "He's bending the rules."

"Then he is as I remember him," Arthur replies, and spends a long while fully awake, admiring his tree and the sunshine, the small white moths and blue butterflies that dance in the meadow beyond, sometimes venturing to alight on the midden that has grown up around him.

Is growing.

Letters. Postcards. Embroidery (once). More postcards. Playing cards. Letters again. Wood carving. Hand-tooled leather. Messages printed on shirts, the letters formed of multi-coloured paste stones or flecks of silver and gold. Beadwork. Quillwork. Painted banners and tiny typed cards that fit in the palm. Messages folded into little animal shapes – frogs and birds and dragons.

Arthur wonders if Merlin has gone irredeemably mad, or if this is just another of his expansion phases. Perhaps the entire world has become like this – gaudy, crowded, decked out in spangles and paper frogs.

He's not sure he approves, but he aches for the chance to find out.

One day he notices that something has changed. One of the blossoms on his tree is missing; in its place is a small green fruit. He stares at it for hours, days, months until it starts to blush. 

"You will be leaving us soon, I think," the sisters say, but they cannot tell him the measure of the word. Days? Months? Years? Eventually he closes his eyes again, not to sleep, but for the pleasure of opening them every now and then and seeing how his apple is coming along.

***

Post-its, they are called. Merlin is fond of them. The sisters, not so much.

"It's excessive," they say. "A waste of good trees. Emrys should know better."

At first they are all yellow – then green, blue, shocking shades of pink and orange. Arthur senses Merlin's mood by them. Green is a good day. The palest yellow and dull blue-grey mean he is feeling low. Sometimes he sends a whole stack of those, one word per note or the entire message printed over and over again, the letters etched deep into the paper and underlined for emphasis.

Sometimes Arthur grows angry, wonders if he could be free of this place already if Merlin would just write something different, write something _new._ He asks the tree if this is possible, if Emrys possesses such power. He imagines he hears the tree sigh.

***

Orange. Yellow. Yellow. Blue. Green. Green. Green on the sword. Green.

His sword!

Arthur sits up before he remembers that he can't, reaches to grasp the hilt offered to him before he remembers that it has been centuries since he last held a weapon. 

"My Lady?" he says, for this isn't one of the sisters. She is small and lithe and somewhat transparent, with wide eyes and dripping dark hair. When she smiles she is more beautiful than them all.

"There is a note," she says, nodding towards the curling Post-it stuck to the blade. 

Arthur is about to tell her that he already knows what it says, that it's _always_ the same, and surely she must know this, but there is something about her smile, the mischievous glint in her eyes.

He reaches out with his free hand, uncurls the note, and sees: three words, not five. His heart leaps. He feels it now, pumping, beating the life back into his veins. Three words, not five.

Not _I will wait for you,_ but _I am waiting._

He is waiting. It is time.

"How?" Arthur says.

The Lady flicks her gaze upward. Arthur sees that the apple – his apple – is a perfect, ripe golden-red.

"I expect the lake's going to be very boring now," she says, sighing. Then, "Give him my love, will you?"

Then, just before she fades away altogether, "Goodbye, Arthur Pendragon."

"Goodbye," he says, "and thank you." 

He repeats this to the moths, to the butterflies, to his tree. To the sisters, too, who only shake their heads and mutter over what's to become of his midden, the great mound of correspondence that, standing, comes up to his thighs.

***

He knows him at once for who he is, despite the disguise. He seems stunned, too stunned to move, so it is Arthur who plants his sword in the soft ground and pulls him into an embrace, kissing his wrinkled cheeks, his forehead.

"You waited."

"I told you I would." It comes out peevish, strained.

Arthur pulls back to see tears welling up in those dear, fine eyes. "Yes, you did," he says. "You did indeed."

They stare at one another for a long moment, then…

They are laughing. Heads back, then doubled-over, aching with it, shoving at one another until they tumble down into the mud and grass.

"Waited and waited and _bloody_ waited," Merlin gasps out, the age slipping from him before Arthur's eyes. "God, Arthur, do you have any idea how…?" Then he is looking up at Arthur with a rueful smile. "Shit. I'm sorry. Of course you do."

"Yes." Arthur nods, but he is done with all that now. Done with being a hollow king, trapped lonely and idle beneath an apple tree. "So, what do we need to do?"

"Ah." Merlin shoves Arthur off and starts pawing himself all about the groin.

"Merlin! What are you doing?" Arthur glances around, but they are unobserved.

"My mobile," he says, extracting something from his trousers, poking at it, then passing it to Arthur. 

Intrigued, Arthur cups it in both hands, peering at the tiny words and pictures trapped behind the glassy surface. It's some sort of magic Post-it, he decides. 

Once the novelty of the presentation wears off, he begins to actually read, pleased at how well he _can,_ how much he understands, but…

"Missing cats, Merlin? Schoolyard bullies? Theft of lunches from the break room, wherever that may be?" This is not what he imagined, and it must show on his face.

"I thought we'd start small. Work our way up to tackling poverty, climate change and England's chances in the World Cup."

"Cup? So, ultimately it is to be a quest?"

"All in good time, sire," Merlin says, grinning. He plucks the Post-it device from Arthur's hands. "Then there's this." He taps at the face and tilts it towards Arthur.

The many small words, the pictures, are gone. In their place, three larger words on gleaming white: _I miss you._

Arthur does something he'd never dared do before. He grabs Merlin's ears. "You should have sent this a long time ago," he murmurs, rubbing his nose alongside Merlin's. "Would have saved a lot of trees. The sisters are very upset with you about that, by the way."

"Are you mad?" Merlin fumbles the magic Post-it back wherever it came from and plunges his hands into Arthur's hair. "That cost me a month's wages. I'm not throwing it in a lake."

Arthur chuckles against Merlin's lips. "I meant the message, Merlin."

"Oh."

"Yes."

_"Oh."_

And then they are down again, down amongst the mud and grass and shredded leaves. Sticks. Stones. Crushed wildflowers. For the rest of the afternoon, they talk in nothing but kisses. Hands. Skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Heartfelt thanks to the mods, artists, writers, readers and lurkers at Tavern Tales for making it the such a splendid, welcoming place to hang. In pub-speak, I could not wish for a better local. :-) [ Claudine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/claudine) deserves special hearty backslaps and thanks for the comment-prompt that inspired this work: Merlin throwing magical letters in the lake. I could not get this idea out of my head, nor the one that followed: that while at first it might be done out of regret/madness, eventually it might become an act of hope, preparing Arthur for his resurrection.
> 
> I've borrowed much from conglomerated Arthurian mythology for this version of Avalon and mingled it with the show canon. So, while Freya = Lady of the Lake, show canon Morgana is not envisioned as one of the nine sisters here.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the verb for I (the Rosetta Stone remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12742740) by [schweet_heart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart)




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